Old Hearts Remember
by salty-sarah
Summary: AU: Blaise Zabini is the Black King, as his mother was the Black Widow, and behind his back they call him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry. For my 200th reviewer Dreamers0rule0the0earth.
1. Chapter 1

AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

**NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY**

For my 200th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time', Dreamers0rule0the0earth, who requested a Slytherin!Harry and this fantabulous pairing (o: Hope you enjoy!

Rating: M

* * *

Prologue

The wizarding world wasn't quite sure what to expect, but the reality of Harry James Potter certainly wasn't it. No one had seen the miraculous Boy-Who-Lived since before that fateful night when Voldemort had been obliterated out of their world, but legends had begun circulating even before the dawn had broken, about a handsome, heroic boy who commanded scores of phoenixes and dragons with a finger and gurgle. Surely, only such a figure would have been worthy of defeating the most powerful Dark Lord in history at the age of one. Even Albus Dumbledore, for all his eccentricities, was an undeniably charismatic man. That he had been left with Muggles- for his safety, of course- just left the whole wizarding world on tenterhooks on what their saviour would be like.

The year Harry James Potter was slated to arrive at Hogwarts was the year the station at King's Cross had never been more packed. There had been an explosion of children after the war, and even though none of them would be attending Hogwarts the same year, they all wanted to catch a glimpse of the famed Boy-Who-Lived. They pressed into the station from all entrances, filling in the nooks and crannies with wide eyes and expectant faces, on the lookout for a Ministry escort, at the very least, or perhaps an unaided apparition (ignoring the fact that the boy was just eleven), or even an arrival by phoenix.

None of that happened. In fact, it didn't even look like Harry James Potter had arrived at all.

Aboard the train, students scoured every single compartment for their saviour, but had found nothing. There had been no trace of him, not until the Sorting, where Minerva McGonagall abruptly called out, "Potter, Harry!"

Children clambered over each other to spot their saviour, to figure out which one of the firsties left was him. Then the unimaginable happened.

This _thing _shuffled forward, with a mop of messy black hair that concealed nearly all traces of his face except a pale chin, swathed in oversized clothes and unmatching ripped shoes. Everyone gaped. _This _was their saviour? What exactly had happened-

He'd been sitting on the stool for a good half-minute before McGonagall recovered enough to place the Sorting Hat on his head. And then something else completely unexpected happened.

The hat needed barely two seconds to draw in a breath and yell, "SLYTHERIN!"

There wasn't any applause. Too many people were too stunned to even process what had truly just happened.

And so in a single night, all the legends of the Boy-Who-Lived were destroyed. He'd been living with _Muggles _for the past decade, for Merlin's sake, who'd apparently seen fit to psychologically abuse the boy to this extent- the Muggles had destroyed their saviour. The wizarding world went wild. They were going to find the person who did this to the poor boy, and then _crucify _them-

But, as these things were wont to do in the wizarding world, the whole fiasco blew over without the slightest bit of improvement. England seemed resigned to this mousy, pathetic saviour whom no one could find hair or hide of half the time. Of course, there were still underground groups that kept pressing for the incarceration of the boy's guardians, but without the open advocacy of the Boy-Who-Lived himself, there was little they could do. And Albus Dumbledore breathed a little easier, at least for another day yet.

It looked as though Voldemort were vanquished for good, thankfully; the wizarding world would never stand for a Slytherin saviour- other than himself, of course.

And so life went on at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry Potter became part of the furniture in Slytherin house. He would have been a target, simply because of his seeming weakness, mixed blood and apparent Light tendencies, but his title protected him somewhat, not to mention the apathy in the boy's eyes that just never disappeared no matter what was said to him. Within a month, Harry Potter had been forgotten.

No one saw the full marks on every test, the first place academic standings year after year, the perfect practicals. They didn't see the almost sylph-like ability he had on a broom. They saw nothing at all.

When Hermione Granger burst into an angry tirade about her placement in her O.W.L.s. as second place over all, despite her having taken all ten classes and only achieving three EE's, no one could give her a name. Even the professors somehow seemed to have forgotten just who occupied the elusive spot before her.

The Slytherin Fifth-Year boys' prefect had apparently turned in his badge, unobtrusively leaving it on Snape's desk one day after Potions. Only the sallow Potions Master had an inkling about just who that had been, but even that wisp of a thought was soon dismissed in the opportunity to gift his godson with this position. Of course speculation spiralled round the Slytherin house about just who this absolute git was, to turn down such power, but no one could supply a name. Harry Potter wasn't even considered as a candidate. Even in his own dorm, none of his yearmates seemed to remember that he lived there. The hangings around his bed were always drawn, hiding their interior from sight.

There came a change, though, in the school year of 1997/8, sweeping through their school and their world so fast it left them all wanting for breath.

The prefects had gathered in their compartment, all of them present save the Head Boy. Most of them knew they were positions based on academic excellence, but no one could quite figure out just who the Head Boy was. The Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff Seventh-Year male prefects all represented the top in their house. Draco was second, of course, but neither he nor Daphne Greengrass had a name. It was rare that a Head Boy or Girl be chosen outside the current group of prefects, but as they were positions of academic excellence, such circumstances weren't unheard of.

Suddenly the compartment door slid open, and all of the girls- and some of the boys- held their breath. Perfectly framed by the narrow opening of the door was a five foot eleven inch god. He had alabaster skin, a clean, angular jaw, high cheekbones, and a straight, unbroken nose. His long tousled hair was darker than night and looked freshly sex-mussed. He pierced them all through with electrifying eyes of emerald, a glint of gold in his hand. He glanced down at it, then dismissed it from his attention.

"Here, I believe this belongs to one of you." Some of them actually swooned. Even his voice felt like a dark caress, sinking its hooks into their very souls and reeling them in powerfully. He flipped the badge up, and eyes widened at the 'HB' engraved in the tiny shield. The compartment descended into a feeding frenzy as the boys all dove for the title and the girls fought for memorabilia of the god that had just entered their cabin. No one saw him walk away with a smirk drifting across his face.

"POTTER?!"

Every single tabloid in the country exploded in a fury of speculative gossip. Now that the war was over, no one had anything else to do. It was like their memories were gradually being restored by the enigmatically seductive touch of the Boy-Who-Lived. They suddenly remembered his unparalleled grace on a broom, and Draco Malfoy paled at the realisation about just how much easier it would've been for his team to clinch the Quidditch Cup if Potter'd been Seeker since his Second-Year.

Hermione Granger suddenly recalled Potter's flawless classroom performances and realised he'd taken every class she had Third-Year, but without dropping Divination, or Muggle Studies. Apparently he'd gotten O's with Honours for every OWL achieved, and it was only now that she could remember a shield of his hanging in the trophy room, with his name beside the only other boy in Hogwarts history to achieve that honour, a Tom Marvolo Riddle. She couldn't hope to compare to _that._

Suddenly eyes were boring into Harry Potter as if they'd never seen him before.

And none of them had.

And yet when certain factions tried to corner him, they found him uncannily slippery. He was never where they thought he'd be, never anywhere at all except in class, and the moment the bell rang he was gone, swift as the wind, and not a sight or sound heard from him. But for every second they caught a glimpse of him, they fell in love with him that much more.

Was it his magical heritage that he'd suddenly come into over the summer? Questions like that spread like wildfire over the castle. Potter could never be cornered for a straight answer. But then just before Yule, Daily Prophet reporter and gossip columnist extraordinaire Rita Skeeter found herself sent a collection of unlabelled Pensieve memories. Finding little else to do, she looked through each one of them, and emerged a furious, sobbing wreck, ready to unleash her scathing Quick-Quotes Quill on a truly deserving person.

Over the Yule holidays, a series of articles documenting the Muggle-abused childhood of their saviour was published. The British public was whipped into an unstoppable frenzy. Where the earlier movement lacked exactly that, there was no inertia to this second coming. Investigators ripped through decade-old documents and dug into closeted skeletons, all to unearth that elusive creature at the heart of all this. Speculative whispers of who could condone such actions to _any _child, let alone their saviour, sprang up in every corner. Some thought it was the Minister, Fudge, who saw the legendary baby as a political opponent. Others had darker thoughts of the re-emergence of a shadow in the east. No one was prepared for the name that sprang out in the end.

Albus Dumbledore. Albus Percival Wulfic Brian Dumbledore, guilty of child endangerment and second-degree child abuse, both of the emotional and psychological kind. It didn't matter that a truly heroic Boy-Who-Lived had finally emerged. What mattered to the public was the sixteen years they'd missed out on him.

The various political parties were quick to capitalise on this momentary weakness of Dumbledore's. They stripped him of all his titles, including his Order of Merlin, and before anyone could even suggest otherwise, they had snapped his wand and shipped him off to Nurmengard, to a cell right beside a familiar old friend of his.

More stories began to circulate, about how Gellert Grindelwald had driven Dumbledore to insanity by the end of their first night together.

Harry Potter was untouchable. No one, it seemed, could get close enough to have a conversation with him, let alone strike up a camaraderie. But they told themselves they understood it now. Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was a beautiful, tragic figure, destined to be forever alone. They would watch him from afar, forever content at marvelling at his otherworldly grace.

After graduation though, they didn't even have that, since Harry James Potter disappeared from England altogether.

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Thus concludes the prologue. There will be four chapters after this one, posted each week. Cheers (o:


	2. Chapter 2

AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

**NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY, BLAISE/HARRY, WARNINGS FOR SLASH**

Rating: M

* * *

Chapter One

Six months after his graduation from Hogwarts, Blaise Zabini had not only inherited his mother's fortune (she had died, most unfortunately, just two days after her eleventh husband) but also his mother's reputation. He was better known in wizarding society as the Black King to his mother's Black Widow, just as beautiful and just as unattainable. Aside from his dark colouring, Blaise had never once been seen in anything other than black. He had worn it for his first wedding, and then his mother's funeral, and then for her period of mourning. Just eleven months later, his first wife was dead, killed by a stray Bludger (she had been a Quidditch enthusiast and the owner of the Wimbourne Wasps), and he was once again stoic and untouchable in the jet of mourning.

Eight months later, he met his second wife, the daughter of what had been the head of a South American trading tycoon. Five months after their first meeting they were married. Eight months later she was dead. She had been the sole heir of the entire trade monopoly. How fortunate for Blaise that he stood to inherit it all.

And the trend just continued. He was never single for a period of more than two years. By the time of he was twenty-three, he'd had four ex-wives- four dead wives, and four family fortunes equivalent to the GDP of a small country for his trouble.

Blaise didn't quite care about the women, just as he had known his mother hadn't cared about the men. They just kept coming, and coming, and coming, all with a single damning intent. Some said it was his face that drew them in; others his wealth. Blaise paid no attention to any of it. He was above it, and he alone knew his heritage.

There would only ever be one Zabini at a time. So had the Fates decreed, and so had the Zabini obeyed. That had been the Fates' price to his ancestor, the first Zabini, who had once been of the Erinýes, now called the Eumenídes, the Dirae, or the ever-popular Furies. That had been their price, for turning her human. Certainly, she had seen the horrors that rent families apart; mother from son, father from daughter, but she couldn't staunch the want for a babe in her arms. She had longed for it so much that she had traded the Fates her immortality and her wings, all in a bid for motherhood. And still they wouldn't permit her little half-Furies to run around about the globe. Instead they had her line breed true every generation, and as soon as the new was ready, the old would fall.

That had happened to his mother, and in time, that would happen to him. He wondered if he would look into a son's eyes, or a daughter's, and see his death in them. There would only ever be one Zabini child.

Till then, he kept these flittering birds on his arm like mere decorations. Like his mother before him, and her ancestors before her, he had amassed huge amounts of wealth this way. But it was amassed, in the tradition of the Zabini and his mother, solely for his child. He thought little of his own comfort, much as how his mother had showered him to the point of nearly neglecting her own self. For all his riches, Blaise was still inevitably haunted by the spirit of the first Zabini, intent even after death to preserve her line. No amount of money would rid him of her, nor would it buy him his life. She would see no harm come to him, and swore vengeance on all who came to her line with malicious intent. But in return she demanded an heir, and she would be cruelly uncaring of him once that came to pass.

It was convenient, Blaise thought, as someone tried to chat him up. He didn't even have to do any of the dirty work himself. It almost made putting up with these airheads worth it.

Then he sighed. Of course it wasn't worth it; it never was. The one thing Blaise wanted above all else was true companionship. That was why he was even more vigorous than his mother in pursuit of new partners. He wanted his child, someone he could treasure and reveal all the secrets of their line. He didn't believe that it was possible for there to be such a companion already out there; the Fates hated his family too much to have things made that easy for him. His only alternative was to mould one from the very beginning. His father had been the closest his mother had come to finding her companion, having lived for a miraculous seven years, before his greed finally won over the love he bore for his family. He'd been killed the very next day.

Blaise remembered the blankness in his mother's eyes at times when the loneliness got to be too much. She'd had him; he knew that, and so did she, but a son could only be so much. He had tried, though, inasmuch as his youth and inexperience had allowed him to. It was almost cruel, that the moment he finally became a companion worthy of her, she had passed on, as in turn would the relationship develop between him and his child.

Blaise didn't even hope for the seven years his mother had. She had spoken of Zabinis before who had spent decades in desolate loneliness. He had been preparing his entire life for something similar.

He turned away from the girl in front of him with an irritable sigh. Was it just him, or were they more of a nuisance than usual today? He feared somewhat for the intelligence of his child.

Strolling down Diagon Alley, he cut a black swath through the crowd as young girls stared up at him in love and lust while older woman stared at him in hunger and fear. They all knew his reputation, of course, but the thrill of danger only sent the rush of desire pumping faster through their veins. Ignoring the lot of them, he slipped into Twilfitt and Tatting's to pick up a new set of coats, and nearly ran into the person standing beside the door.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, brushing his fingers briefly over a navy-clad shoulder. A dark head turned and viridian eyes caught his soul.

Their owner smiled wryly. "It's fine, Zabini. No harm done."

Blaise frowned. He would have thought he'd remember a wizard like this, with unbelievable power coiling under his very skin just waiting to snap forth and conquer. It hung about him in a nearly audible thrum. "I'm sorry," he said again, "but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

The man' lips twisted deprecatingly. "The pleasure, no. There is hardly anything pleasurable about my acquaintance, Zabini." There was danger in his smile, the danger Blaise knew he himself exuded, only on a much deeper, more ingrained level. He hadn't thought there could've been anything more seductively dangerous than a Fury's descendant, but apparently, he'd just met his match.

"Will you not tell me your name?" he asked.

The man laughed, and it was warm and slid about his senses like basset bell. "You already know it, Zabini, you and everyone else in this godforsaken world."

At that moment, the cashier returned, holding a shrunken package. "My Lord," he said to the man, bowing low as he presented the package to him. The man took it with an indolent smile. "My thanks, Smithers. The usual tip, of course."

Blaise hadn't thought the man could bow any lower, but apparently he was wrong. "You honour me, My Lord." Then he straightened, and his eye alighted on Blaise's dark form. "Ah, Mr. Zabini. Your coats are ready, right this way, if you please."

Blaise turned his dark gaze upon the man still standing adjacent to him. He favoured him with a smile, and leaned casually against the counter, his package secured under one arm.

"Tell me, Zabini, what exactly do you want?"

For the first time in many, many years, Blaise was at a loss for words. His bewilderment must have shown somehow through his usually stoic face, for the man relaxed somewhat, and took Blaise's elbow to guide him in the direction Smithers had indicated. "Come along then, Zabini, let's see what you've got picked out."

Smithers's work was exquisite, as usual. He had ordered three coats, one in jet black with gold brocade; a deep burgundy coat with cream trimmings; and a charcoal piece, with black embroidery at the collar, hem, and sleeves. They all fell to the knee, and were of the double-breasted, military-styling kind. He slipped out of the coat he'd been wearing over his black turtleneck and trousers and tried them on. They fit perfectly, although he asked for a change in the style of his pockets. He kept the flaps on his black one, but had Smithers eliminate them on the burgundy and charcoal, leaving just the slits.

"Excellent taste," the man said from his seat in a reclining chair.

Blaise glanced at him, fingers on the lapel of his charcoal coat. "I do not expect anything less," he said, although he wasn't quite sure if he was referring to the man or himself.

He received a warm chuckle in reply. "I'd be disappointed in you if you did," he said. "Join me for lunch?"

The invitation startled him. "Join me for lunch," the man repeated, his smile growing to reveal impeccable teeth, "and wear the black coat. It's a lovely day outside."

Smithers gathered his remaining coats together unobtrusively as Blaise and the man just watched each other. "Who are you?" Blaise asked bluntly.

The man laughed, and it made him think of dark chocolate on moonlit nights, and a balm on his soul. "Zabini, you only had to ask." He took Blaise's package from Smithers, and then gestured for him to precede him out the store. "Surely you can't remember your old roommate, Harry Potter?"

* * *

And there you have it (o: Cheers.


	3. Chapter 3

AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

**NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY, BLAISE/HARRY, WARNINGS FOR SLASH**

For my 200th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time', Dreamers0rule0the0earth, who requested a Slytherin!Harry and this fantabulous pairing (o: Hope you enjoy!

Rating: M

* * *

Chapter Two

If Blaise had attracted attention before, it was nothing compared to the amount they were getting now. People of all ages and sexes stopped to stare at them, devouring every exposed inch with ravenous eyes. It wasn't everyday two utterly gorgeous men strolled down Diagon Alley together dressed to the nines.

"You haven't been in England in-"

"Five years; yes I know, I wasn't here," Potter replied dryly.

"A lot of things have happened since you left," he said.

"Happened, yes, but changed, no," Potter said. There was nothing Blaise could say to contradict that. So instead he asked, "Why now, then? Why did you come back?"

Potter shrugged. "Figured five years was long enough. There are things here that I still have to take care of. There are a myriad of reasons, actually."

"Alright." Blaise didn't pry anymore. It wasn't his business. "Where to for lunch?"

"I was thinking something light," Potter said, barely batting a lash at the change of subject. Blaise abruptly realised this was the longest- the only, in fact, conversation he'd had with the other man. He might not have participated in the short-lived attempts at riling the Halfblood when he was younger, but that hardly meant that he'd acknowledged him. Quite the opposite, rather. "I know a place in Brighton that does good seafood-"

"That sounds fine."

Without nary another word, Harry slid his arm around Blaise's waist and Disapparated them mid-step. The transition was so smooth that he didn't even realise they'd changed locations till he put his foot down.

"What-"

"Welcome to the Brighton Marina," Potter said, winking at him cheekily as if he didn't know what Blaise was asking. He still hadn't removed that arm around his waist. "Here, the Fisherman's Cove."

Blaise allowed himself to be escorted into the establishment. Despite its name, it wasn't the ramshackle hovel he'd thought it be. The furniture was very sleek, clean, and minimalistic. The maître d' smiled upon seeing them. "Welcome back, My Lord. The regular table for you and your guest?"

Potter cut the woman a small smile. "That would be nice, Cassandra." Despite the pleasantry, there was no request in his tone.

She led them over to a square table on a porch, with a perfect view of the Brighton coast. "The usual, please, Cassandra," Potter said lightly, not even glancing at the menus.

"Yes, My Lord," she said, bobbing her head. "I'll be back to take your orders." She slipped off soundlessly, leaving the two men to their vices.

He raised his eyebrows. "You've been getting around, Potter, and no one's ever seen you."

"I like my privacy," he said loftily. "I pay them well to keep their silence."

"So you claimed the Lordship, then? There hasn't been a Potter Lord-"

"In almost thirty years; yes, I know, Zabini. Why do you insist on quoting these inane numbers to me?"

Blaise abruptly realised that he had been thrown off track by Potter since they'd first met at Twilfitt and Tatting's, and it irked him to not know why. "I don't know," he said rather crossly. "I don't know you anything about you at all."

"Ah," Potter said, nodding sagely. Cassandra, the maître d', returned with a bottle of sherry, and set two glasses down for them. "What would you like, Zabini? The poached haddock is particularly good-"

"I'll have that then." Neither of them had even opened their menus. Potter nodded, smiling faintly. "Splendid. The usual for me, please."

Cassandra set the bottle on the far end of the table, within easy reach. "Of course, My Lord."

Once she'd left, Potter turned back to him. "I apologise that you feel so out of depth, but that honestly wasn't my intention."

"What was your intention, then?" Blaise leant back, steepling his hands across his stomach. Something about Potter intrigued him…

"To get you into bed, of course," Potter said rather blithely. The moment after he said that Blaise wondered why his ancestor hadn't killed the arrogant bastard yet.

"I beg your pardon?"

Potter's smile was soft but sure. "You heard me correctly, Zabini."

"I'm afraid our tastes run in different directions, Potter," Blaise said stiffly.

Potter nodded, giving him that. "Well, perhaps. I'm confident that can change, however."

"I am not."

Potter rolled his eyes and took a sip of the sherry. "Merlin's balls, Zabini, we're just talking about sex here. Oh god, I knew there was a reason why I kept coming here."

Blaise ignored his first statement and picked up his glass to sniff the rim. "The sherry is that good?" He took a small mouthful. "…mm."

Potter smirked. "I do have good taste," he reasoned.

"In liquor, maybe. There is no fine line between liquor and sex. They aren't even in the same spectrum."

"I beg to differ. Fine wines are remarkably similar to sex. The best ones always age well." There was devious glint in his eye as he raised his glass in a silent toast. In spite of himself Blaise couldn't help but feel flattered.

"Fine wines go down well with fine sex. Will you not let me try?"

"A taste?" he said derisively.

"Oh, no," Potter murmured. "I've already had a taste; the first taste was running into you in Smithers' shop." Twilfitt and Tatting's, Blaise had to remind himself. He had to wonder just how much Potter overpaid the man; he was notoriously difficult to charm and practically impervious to bribes. Although not as impervious as he'd once thought; the man had, after all, bent over backwards for Potter. He could think of so many of their old housemates who would weep at this impossible turn of events.

"And?"

There was smile growing on the other's face and a warm look in his eye that made his belly curl. "A nice, heady aroma. A full bouquet."

Blaise inclined his chin. "Can you guarantee that you won't get drunk?" He didn't know why he was even bothering to engage in this verbal foreplay, but ironically enough, this man before him was intoxicating.

"Of course not," Potter demurred. His eyes flickered up to meet his. "The risk of getting drunk is half the fun."

Blaise's throat seized up when he opened his mouth to protest. He was suddenly painfully aware of his heritage. There was a reason why Zabinis never did casual flings- the count would be through the roof if they did. Potter appeared relatively upfront concerning his intentions, but Blaise didn't need a bloody Boy-Who-Lived among the bodies piling up at his door!

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Potter."

"Oh, but I do think I do," the man purred, and Blaise froze. It was as if the man's voice had hooks that sank beneath his skin. "Even on the continent your name- but more your face- not to mention your fortune- is unparalleled. The Black King, they call you, to show you respect, but do you know what they call you when you turn your back on them?"

Potter's eyes never once blinked, green like endless summer fields swaying in the breeze. He could almost smell the scent of fresh-cut grass.

"The Black Death, the Plague. You bring death into a ritual meant to celebrate the renewal of life."

Nothing in Blaise's face showed Potter's words affected him save the slight tightening of his jaw. "And what of it?"

Potter smiled. It was a smile Blaise had yet to see on Potter's face, on anyone's face, directed straight at him. It was free, open, and full of good cheer. The light in his eyes was unfeigned, and Potter appeared to be taking genuine pleasure in his presence.

"Nothing," he said. "It means nothing at all." His hands swept open before him in an absent gesture of his acceptance.

Blaise was astonished. He'd never heard his reputation spoken of in terms as baldly as this before. He would say Potter was insane, insane for wanting to still try, despite all that he'd just said, but Blaise couldn't help but wonder if he were truly crazy for someone to want him, just him.

He wondered if it were the Fates once again intervening, for the person who seemed most drawn to him could not give him the child he longed for.

Their meals came, and they spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the fish. The haddock was truly delectable. Potter cut him a portion of cod without his even asking and settled it on his side dish.

"Try it." Blaise had the odd feeling Potter was referring to more than his main course.

The piece of white flesh touched his tongue in an explosion of juice and flavour. He couldn't help himself; a muffled groan slipped from his lips and his eyes fluttered close. When they opened again, Potter was looking at him, grinning slightly.

"Good, isn't it?"

"Good doesn't even begin to describe it." He cocked an eyebrow. "Is this why you had me order the haddock? So you could have the best for yourself?"

Potter's laugh was full-bellied and rambunctious. "Merlin, no! I always have a white fish; their salmon is rather splendid too, but it doesn't go down quite well with this sherry." He tapped the bottle neck lightly with his knife edge, and the crystal rang out clear and proud. "I actually rotate among the various fish. And sometimes I tell them to surprise me." He eyed Blaise's plate with undisguised hunger. "So how is the haddock today?"

Blaise wanted to blame it on the wine, but he knew it had nothing to do with what he did next. He reached out for Potter's collar and pulled him across the table.

He couldn't help the mental smirk when Potter let out a little breathy moan at the taste. When he shoved the other back, the man let himself slide down the chair's back, absently licking his lips to savour what remaining flavour still lingered.

"It truly is excellent."

"I'm glad you approve."

"Only a madman would find fault with it."

Blaise couldn't help but laugh. "Only a madman would pursue the Black King."

Potter smiled. "Oh no, it isn't the Black King I want. Everyone knows the Black King; everyone wants a piece of him, the perfect, beautiful, chess piece, forever surrounded, forever guarded. The one I want is Black Death."

There was no trace of humour left on Blaise's face. He stared straight at Potter, trying to read a person he had known of for seven years and had never really known at all.

"Turnabout is fair play," Potter said softly.

If Blaise were in any less control of his emotions, his eyebrows would have hit his hairline. He couldn't believe that Potter was even proposing, let alone promising open disclosure. For a man shrouded in mystery, his secrets were everything. And he was willing to share them, relinquish this power. With him. Just him.

"I know you're asking yourself why. What are you getting out of this. Bloody Slytherin."

The insult was done in good humour, so Blaise let it pass. Besides, Potter was obviously just as Slytherin as he was, more so, in fact, if he was half the things Blaise suspected he was.

"But you can't think like that. You can't think of my self, my secrets, as worth anymore than yours. If you can commit yourself to this, Blaise, the same rules apply to me." He once again spread his hands openly on the table. Potter seemed to be fond of that gesture. It was less practiced and more natural, a thoughtless exclamation by his body.

They finished their meals in relative silence.

The maïtre d' never intruded save for twice more: once to clear their plates and take their orders for dessert; and then to bring their desserts to them. Potter had his 'usual', which was chocolate fudge concoction, and suggested Blaise order the strawberry cheesecake, only it turned out to be more cream cake than cheese, and Blaise couldn't find it in himself to complain. The plates were sparkling clean by the time they were done with them.

Blaise didn't ask about the check. Potter didn't mention a word.

He rose to his feet, Potter following him a second later. Once they were out of the restaurant, he took Potter's elbow as they continued to amble down the Marina.

"My manor is under wards that only allow guests to be brought in personally by members of the Zabini family." He didn't mention how at any given time there would only be a maximum of two such members.

He halted abruptly. Once Potter was still, he Apparated them both.

* * *

I haven't a clue about Brighton, honestly, but I'm making up this wizarding village of a subset of the Muggle town. And for all of you who knew that was what Blaise would do when Harry asked for a taste, I hate you (o; Please review! Cheers.

Also, I do have to warn you about my possible hiatus of the next two weeks. I'm going to be off doing silly young-person things, and I'll have very sporadic internet access. I'll certainly try to keep to our established schedule, of course, but if that isn't possible I sincerely apologise in advance.


	4. Chapter 4

AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

**NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY, BLAISE/HARRY, WARNINGS FOR SLASH.**

For my 200th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time', Dreamers0rule0the0earth, who requested a Slytherin!Harry and this fantabulous pairing (o: Hope you enjoy!

Rating: M

_Italics - _thought-speech

* * *

Chapter Three

A cold nose nudged at a particular sensitive spot beneath his ear. He didn't know when the bloody pest had found the time to drape himself all over his back. Blaise resisted the urge to swat the man away and instead settled for snapping, "Do you want me to drop the wards on you?"

A rather gentle, if reprimanding nip came at the nape of his neck, but the other touches subsided. Blaise took a deep, shuddering breath, and summoned up the family magic.

_A true guest? There hasn't been one in so long a time. _

Zabini Manor was singularly unique in that it was created from the cthonic powers of his ancestor's Fury companions. Wild magic coursed through every brick and marble slab, causing it to be more than adequately sentient. It looked more like a Greek temple than an actual house, but for Blaise it had always been home.

And the Manor spoke true; there hadn't been a true guest for more than a decade now. Blaise's own father had been the last one before his fall from grace. All the others were acknowledged by him and the rest of the family to be nothing more than tools for the object of conception; the manor could be just as cruel as his ancestor like that. Blaise would never have troubled his manor with this formality for them. He still didn't know why he was doing this for someone he had met less than once.

_His name is Harry James Potter, _he told the house. _Treat him well. _

_Let us taste his magic._

"Potter," he rasped. "your hand." He found a large palm extended on his right, and grasped it by the wrist. Ignoring the taut muscle and flesh he was holding, he instead concentrated on the trace amounts of magic he knew would be running through his veins. What he hadn't expected was for Potter to be brimful of the stuff, nearly spilling out and over. The Manor chuckled at his surprise.

_This is a strong one. He will make a good companion, we think._

_I hope,_ he allowed himself to whisper, before withdrawing his mind from the wards.

The sudden transition from power surge to abrupt loss made him stumble back briefly, but warm hands rested on either side, bracing him easily. "The wards will allow you access to the grounds," Blaise croaked, and then cleared his throat. "But should you arrive on your own, either remain on the grounds or wait in the foyer, and I will meet you there to bring you into the house. Do not, under any circumstances, try to enter the manor proper."

Potter hummed thoughtfully, and traced an appreciative line along the gates as they crossed them. "These are amazing wards. When you took my hand- I could feel their power." He looked at Blaise questioningly. "You don't have any house-elves? I would've been sure- with your wealth-"

"For the other properties, yes, but there are no house-elves here. When you arrive, the Manor will inform me. I have no need for their presence here. The Manor wouldn't allow it, would probably slaughter them the moment they cross the threshold." He allowed himself a small smile as they strolled through the luscious grounds. "She is proud, you see. She doesn't take lightly to mere brutes trying to show her up." He felt an appreciative warmth from the wards, and let his smile widen that much more.

"You make her sound like a person."

"Don't ever underestimate her," he warned. "Even I dare not, and I am supposed to be master here. She has made it quite clear that there is only one true mistress." He favoured the expansive double-doors that were the entrance of the house itself with a fond touch. They swung open the moment his fingertips brushed their smooth surface.

Zabini Manor had been resplendent in the days of yore, and continued to be as monumental even in modern times. The floor was a single sheet of highly polished black marble with veins of semi-precious stones threading through it. Extraordinary frescoes decorated the walls and ceilings.

"It's beautiful," Potter said simply. There was not much more to add. The awe with which he gazed about spoke whole volumes for him.

"It is home," Blaise replied. Potter kissed him in the middle of the first story landing, in front of a painting of Circe and Odysseus. Unlike its other wizarding counterparts, the portraits in the Zabini Manor rarely ever moved. For one, there were too many enough of them, and their constant movement would drive anyone insane after awhile. And for another, they were gods, goddesses, divine beings. They would hardly deign to trample about each others' frames like common riffraff.

Blaise pulled away after the brief touch and pointed at the painting above their heads. "Not here. That is a bad omen." Circe seemed to be smirking on her throne as she held a goblet up high to the Odysseus at her feet. It was almost as if she were mocking them with her raised glass.

Potter looked amused, but didn't refute it. He followed Blaise deeper into the manor. "The tale of Circe and Odysseus?"

"She wasn't just a trickster; she was also a jealous shrew with altogether too much power. I would rather not consummate any union beneath a symbol of hers."

"Do you know them all?" Potter was talking about the old myths. There were paintings of nearly every one of them on his walls. His ancestor had enjoyed watching them all come true, and had instilled in each one of her descendants an instinctive understanding and appreciation for them.

"I must," Blaise replied simply. "It would be folly to ignore them. Modern divination has nothing on a visitation by a true god."

He pulled them into a large room that was almost startlingly austere. The floor was the same veined black marble, but the walls were of bare plaster. Their only adornments were brackets for torches and shallow reliefs of pastoral scenes below the cornices.

"Is this your room?" Potter was surveying the empty walls with an unreadable look in his eye. The shepherdesses and their stable boys on the relief looked back at him curiously. They would have never seen another human being outside a Zabini. His wives hadn't warranted the intrusion of privacy into his personal rooms, and as for Potter...Blaise did not think Potter would settle for anything less.

"For now," he said. "It changes whenever my mood changes. It doesn't matter; after all, I am the only one living here."

"You don't find it too lonely?" Potter asked.

Blaise looked at him derisively. "Too many these days place unnecessary important on what they deem 'good company'. The Manor provides as much conversation when I want it, or the portraits do. There are stables outside for when I need to get out. Sometimes solitude is a good thing, especially when people surroound you and stifle you all at the same time."

Potter smiled faintly. "I remember that feeling from my days before Hogwarts."

Blaise stiffened almost imperceptibly, and turned to him with narrowed eyes. Surely Potter would've known he would have seen the pictures in the Daily Prophet-

"Constantly being talked about while constantly being ignored." The other man flashed his host a smile. "Your audience had a different motivation though, I'm sure, but essentially their intents were all the same."

Blaise realised that Potter was taking the first step. He had said he'd offer up himself to Blaise in return- it was Blaise's fault for not having seen this. He mentally shook his head, berating himself for this oversight. Being the Slytherin he was he should be delighted at this intimation. After all it'd been him who'd instigated this exchange by bringing Potter here in the first place, by bringing him right into the heart of Zabini Manor.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a hand on his chest.

"You're thinking too much," Potter whispered, and a part of Blaise's mind told him the man was suddenly much too close, while his body was all for pulling him even closer. "Just let me touch you, let me feel you."

"I don't submit," he stated.

"I'm not asking you too," Potter murmured, lips almost there but not quite. "Just let it go."

It was like they'd never been kissed. Potter's lips were chapped, and he could still taste the lingering traces of chocolate. Chastity was a thing of the past; this was no virginal touching of lips. Potter's mouth opened for him in welcome. The shepherdesses and their stable-boys looked down upon them kindly from the walls.

Strong hands slipped up his back to push the lapels of his coat from his shoulders. Blaise let it fall, knowing the manor would tidy up after him. The flesh of Potter's middle was much firmer than he was accustomed to, the hair leading from his navel much coarser and that much more present. He undid the buttons in his shirt bottoms-first, scraping the cloth aside to reveal the flat chest beneath.

Their lips met again, and Potter's mouth was warm and wet against his jaw, and then his neck, and then his shoulder, taking large bites out of his skin. His turtleneck was pulled over his head and their bodies pressed skin against skin. Blaise thought he rather liked Po-Harry's- large hands on the small of his back, pushing him into a gentle arch that thrust his hips forward. Harry muffled his moan with his mouth. Blaise rather thought he liked that as well.

He shuddered as Harry began pressing him backward with his ever-roving hands and lips, until the back of his knees hit his bed frame and he sat, holding the dark head in place as Harry suckled at his chest and stomach. Blaise had never been attended to like this, and couldn't shake from his drunken head the odd reversal of roles. Harry was chewing on his hip now, his hands deftly snapping his belt out from its loops and baring his lap. Then he shucked his own trousers and they were both equally naked, with Harry on his knees in front of him.

Harry first took tiny tender nips out of the inside of his thigh. Almost kind ministrations, circling predatorily about his cock even as his mouth drew ever nearer. And when it finally descended, with all the delicacy of an axe-blow, Blaise erased all thoughts from his mind and gave himself up to pure feeling.

Harry looked ludicrous like that, on his knees between his knees, a rather roguish grin lighting up his eyes as he licked his lips clean. Despite the recent…meal, he still looked ravenous. "That wasn't quite so bad, was it?"

Then he slunk up and over him, giving Blaise no time to rest as he pushed him onto his back and slid them backwards till they rested in a heap of pillows. He pressed their bodies together, his wide hands moulding their way down his body. Blaise could feel his unattended cock pressing rigidly into his hip, and felt the stirrings of desire uncoil within his belly for the second time that evening.

Suddenly he flipped them over, and straddled the bemused man across his hips. Harry looked up at him with glowing emerald eyes, his mouth slightly parted, and his hand slid up his hip to grasp his waist. Blaise wordlessly summoned a vial of oil, and Harry's eyes widened briefly with undisguised desire. His cock was twitching crazily against his bare arse, and Blaise could feel the muscles in the other man's thighs working at contracting and relaxing in eagerness. So perhaps Harry had a right to be surprised when Blaise poured half the vial onto his own hands and moved past his thigh and up, working his own self open.

"I thought you said you didn't submit-"

His entire body was rolling in long, languid motions as his fingers struck up a rhythm of movement in and out of him. His cock was fully erect again, standing proudly at attention, straining against its fleshly bounds to ascend to some higher plane.

"Poor little Potter," Blaise purred, obviously knowing how to use his fingers to work himself into that heightened state of pleasure. "Did you really think that penetration gives you true power?" He didn't hold back his moans as he thrust a fourth finger within, splaying his legs apart awkwardly and rocking his hips just over Harry's unflagging erection. Then he took the remaining vial and doused the erection before him with it.

Beneath him, the man whimpered uncontrollably, trying desperately to thrust up, and yet unwilling to buck Blaise off. Painfully slowly, Blaise swivelled his hips down, the tip of the blunt cock just breaching him. His body swallowed in the head with an obscene slurp.

"God, Blaise, please…" Harry begged unabashedly, rough fingers groping his hips. Blaise didn't up an inch, even when his chest acquired a rosy flush from the exertion. He looked disdainfully down on the body writhing beneath him, ignoring the beads of perspiration trickling down the side of his face and the small of his back. Harry was trembling with tension by the time he was finally fully seated.

"God, Blaise…" Harry moaned. He gave a slow rock of his hips, watching Harry's lips gasp for breath. The pace was undulating and relentless, but never forced, never rushed. He reduced Harry to a quivering pile of mush sobbing for an orgasm, holding firm even as his thighs trembled and his chest ached from an unseen pressure. By the time orgasm came, he had so blown the other's mind that his body just sagged with relief from the ordeal that was over.

Harry drew him down and kissed him, bumping their sweaty noses together. He was laughing softly. "Alright, you've proved your point. You obviously have me whipped in that department."

"Conceding defeat so soon?" he scorned, but the soft petting of the man's riotous hair belied his harsh words.

Harry's laugh was full-throated and merry. "Hardly," he exclaimed gently, nuzzling at the hollow of his throat.

Blaise let out a low rumble as Harry easily manoeuvred him around, tucking him into bed beside him. Truth be told, he was actually getting a little sleepy now. That one round had taken a lot out of him…

"You obviously know the value of a soft touch. How about the value of just being taken care of?"

Blaise snorted derisively. "What are you, my own personal house-elf?"

"Frankly, I hope not, because I'd hate to think you'd do what you just did with me with a house-elf."

Blaise swatted him across the chest. "I don't believe you just mentioned house-elves and sex in the same sentence. That's disgusting."

He could feel Harry's smile pressed into the side of his jaw. The man was like a warm presence covering his torso and hip, calloused hands running up smooth flesh.

"Well, got your attention, didn't I?"

* * *

Blaise didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know why he permitted Harry Potter some of the luxuries even his mother had never conceded to his father, whom he knew she had loved, if but briefly.

He stared at the person looking back at him in the mirror. A rather slender face looked back at him, with carefully even brows arched elegantly over large, almond-shaped eyes the colour of polished mahogany. He had a strong jaw that gave more definition to his face rather than overpowered it, and tapered off into a soft chin. His dark skin made him appear sleek and exotic, and he knew people found his emotions hard to read. His wavy hair was the same chocolate of his eyes, just that much longer than polite society deemed proper. Of course that minor transgression only made him seem more appealing. Beneath his well-tailored clothes was a perfectly lean, supple body. There wasn't a spare ounce of fat on him.

He was still staring in the mirror when Harry began to stir from their night together, and, rising, came around behind him. Bright green eyes that sparkled despite their patina of sleep looked straight at him.

"They say I look like my mother."

Blaise's whisper was nearly lost in the still morning air. The words evoked another image that overlaid with the one reflected in the silver glass.

An equally slender face, and even more delicate brows hemming in the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen on anyone alive. His mother's eyes had been pale green, but flecked with little bits of blue and grey. They looked like glittering gems in the starlight. When he was younger he had thought no one could ever compare to the beauty that was his mother. He had never found anyone since.

"You don't talk about your mother much," Harry murmured, resting his hand lightly on Blaise's hip. It was a gesture intimate not because of their nudity, but because of the implied camaraderie in it. Blaise couldn't decide if he liked it or not.

He shrugged. "What is there to say? The Black Widow- does her title not speak loud enough?"

Harry said nothing. He calmly watched him in the reflection, patiently, seeming to wait for something else to be said, something more to be added.

"She looked young enough to be my sister," Blaise offered, "and yet everyone knew us, knew of us; our reputations preceded us wordlessly. While she may have looked young enough," he repeated, "no one ever mistook her for anything other than my mother."

"I find myself a little jealous," Harry admitted quietly. "I never knew my mother, never knew someone with that same intimacy."

Blaise tensed slightly at the word. Did he suspect-

"You are obviously dedicated to her memory," he continued, and if he'd noticed Blaise's discomfort, he said nothing. "I have to respect that. No one honours the dead these days."

"No?"

Harry snorted derisively. "They would hardly applaud a year-old baby on the anniversary of his parents' deaths for being a murderer otherwise, wouldn't they?"

Blaise couldn't disagree with that. Then Harry shrugged, good humour inexplicably returning. "I can't keep bringing that up though. The universe doesn't revolve around me."

"Unfortunately," he drawled sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Harry was laughing. "Unfortunately," he agreed good-naturedly.

Breakfast was an exquisitely prepared meal of delicate Italian meats and finely kneaded breads. Harry picked up a roll of nine-grain bread. "What would your universe be like, then?" he asked.

Blaise glanced up, surprised. "Your universe," Harry repeated. "your world. If you could have anything you wanted, anything at all, what would it be?"

"…a life different from my mother's."

* * *

He could tell Harry wanted to ask, but refrained from it. He was inordinately grateful to the man's discretion. Honestly speaking, he hadn't meant to let so intimate a detail slip, but the cold cuts reminded him of her and their Italian heritage and days when they had spent the mornings alone, together, his latest step-father dying of some obscure poison in a bed hundreds of miles away.

Even then, their fates had hung over them like a cloud. Every moment spent together was another moment lost in the hourglass counting down their days. Sooner and sooner, one would die, and the next would take their place. In time, he, would also die, and his child would be his successor. The only mercy their ancestor granted them was the promise of a quick, painless death. He could ask for nothing more.

"What would you like to do today?" Harry's voice stirred him from his inner reverie. Blaise allowed a sly smile to caress his lips.

"Haven't you caused enough waves in English society from your appearance yesterday?"

Harry snorted. "It wasn't like they even recognised me," he retorted, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks. It amused Blaise that this worldly man before him could still be embarrassed by so mundane an occurrence. Every time he walked down a street there came the same whispers and stares. He barely even noticed them anymore.

A brush against his cheekbone made him rear back. He stared imperiously at the intruder with dark eyes. The look in Harry's eyes was wry.

"Am I that boring?" he drawled. Blaise at least had the grace to murmur a half-heard apology. This level of inattention was new, even for him.

"That attention could've been yours to do with what you wish. The vox populi already worshipped you. It wouldn't have taken much effort for you to convert them to your cause. A true Slytherin would have-"

"I'm sure we can find at least a hundred snakes to swear that I was the worst possible choice for a Slytherin," Harry interrupted calmly. "Or maybe perhaps that I'm not all there."

Blaise scowled at him, but sat back in his chair, waiting for the man to finish his piece.

"I couldn't have come out a moment sooner, don't you see?" Harry's voice had taken on an almost coaxing, pleading tone, begging for him to understand his rationale and approve. "For all the power they claim to assign me, they would have used every arsenal in their power to prevent me from actually using any of it for my own agenda, instead harnessing it all to forward their own ploys. A cunning Slytherin aware of the power at his disposal is a threat.

"Better to remain nondescript, forgotten, until I was finally able to legally harbour all of the political sentiment for my own use and my own cause."

Blaise had thought of something like that when he'd pondered over their circumstance, and couldn't help but be impressed by the plots of a Muggle-raised-and-abused eleven-year-old. It was no wonder then, in retrospect, why exactly the Sorting Hat had thought him a Slytherin.

"…and the invisibility?"

Harry's mouth twisted derisively. "It has nothing to do with magic, and it is my best achievement to date."

Considering this was coming from the man who had destroyed the greatest Dark Lord in history, fooled an entire wizarding world for six years, and recently foisted the most powerful Light wizard since Merlin from his podium, this was no small praise.

Harry's next words transfixed him.

"I would have died otherwise."

There was nothing at all Blaise could say to that. When he tried to imagine his obnoxiously confident lover as the miserable cretin he barely recalled from Hogwarts, he found it impossible. He tried to think back even further, to before Harry had even entered Hogwarts, and shuddered at the abuse he must have been showered with as a child. Something of his inner turmoil must have showed on his face, because Harry somehow found it his duty to pry him from his dark thoughts.

And when he spoke again, it was from a place much closer than the last.

"Must I employ the same methods from last night to recapture your attention?"

The hot breath ghosted across his face, and Blaise couldn't ignore the stir of hunger in his belly for another kind of food. He kissed him, lips cool and dry, but oddly sweet and spiced from the meat. Their tongues tangled lazily around each other, teeth clacking like rattling pearls, and hands roved over cloth-stifled skin. Harry's eyes were glowing with an odd light when they pulled back.

"Let's go then," he said, sweeping to his feet. Blaise eyed with him fond disdain.

"And just what horrors do you think you're subjecting me to to-day?"

Harry laughed, and the sound swept into the dining hall like a fresh-blown gale. Blaise shuddered as it seemed to seek out the crevices in his non-existent heart, and even the Manor herself seemed to curve over her guest in interest.

"A torture of your own devising, of course," he said, taking Blaise's hand and prying him to his feet. "We'll go to Diagon Alley."

* * *

Greetings from the Frisco bay! Just a reminder guys, this is a five-chapter fic, including the prologue, which means that the next chapter is the last (o:


	5. Chapter 5

AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

**NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY, BLAISE/HARRY, WARNINGS FOR SLASH.**

For my 200th reviewer of 'World Enough and Time', Dreamers0rule0the0earth, who requested a Slytherin!Harry and this fantabulous pairing (o: Hope you enjoy!

Rating: M

* * *

Chapter Four

If yesterday's attention was terrible, today's was ridiculou.

Word had gone round, of course, as it always had, that the Black King had a new acquisition trapped in checkmate. The ghastlier ones told of Black Death having entrapped a new victim within his merciless tendrils. Blaise wanted to snort when he first heard those rumours. As much as he'd hate to admit it, it had been Harry, not him, who'd instigated this inexorable flame.

It was interesting to watch the man ignore all the stares and whispers, even as Blaise had known that just ten minutes ago, he had blushed at the very thought. Now he strutted down the main street of Diagon Alley with all the careless ease of a true born-and-bred aristocrat. They spent a good three hours with a vintage wine-seller, debating the merits of sangria and claret. They were truly horribly common wines, but the well-juiced ones were to be hoarded and treasured like none other on this earth. They left two thousand galleons lighter with four bottles of three hundred-year-old claret. Harry, naturally, had won the debate.

"Proud of yourself now, are we?" he murmured. Harry merely preened.

"Naturally."

Blaise was almost mortified when he was suddenly pulled into an alley that was, at least, cleaner than most, but then Harry started snogging him, and he was stunned to realise that he didn't mind the dinginess as long as it was that familiar firm body pressing against him, muscled thigh parting his legs, and the scent of peach blossoms filling his lungs. Chapped lips massaged his, and a sweet tongue scraped the top of his palate. It was like Harry's entire form enveloped him, blocking out the world, blocking out reality and his future, and his inevitable fate.

But fate hated his ancestor and every single one of her descendants. They would never leave him alone, and constantly sought out new measures with which to taunt him. The Fates may have granted his ancestor's wish, but that didn't make him any less of an abomination in their eye.

After all, he'd had to, out of all the pathetic miserable sycophants in the world, run into Malfoy.

The prick had become insufferable after his parents had died under suspicious circumstances- which basically meant he'd offed them and simply poured sufficient gold down the right gullets to overlook it. Of course, he'd inherited the entire Malfoy fortune and spent his days squandering it in the most useless ways he could possibly conceive.

His wife, Pansy, was a hideous creature, entirely unchanged from her days at Hogwarts, and completely unremarkable. Draco himself should've been attractive, having been the offspring of two undeniably beautiful people, but the insipid inbreeding had finally surfaced in him, giving him a weak chin and seedy eyes that ruined any natural bearing he might've had. And thus he had sought to overcompensate with crude posturing and a banal wit. Blaise actually pitied any child the two cretins might bear together, although the Fates might decide to be kinder and have it die in childbirth while rendering her barren.

Malfoy, with Malfoy-Parkinson on his arm, had seen them from across the atrium, and had to comment.

"So it's true, then?" Even his voice was grating, whiny and somewhat nasal. It suited him for the miserable cretin that he was. For someone who had spent seven years of his life belittling the Weasleys, Malfoy was incredibly similar to them.

"All this while, everyone's been wondering what it'd take to hook the Black King? And all it took was the right stick up-"

He had a wand in his face before he even finished the sentence. Blaise had to admit he was mildly impressed; Harry had managed to draw his wand and cross the atrium between the words 'stick' and 'up'.

Then the brunet backhanded Malfoy almost casually, sending him spiralling from his wife's arm and sprawling across the pavement. Everyone in the vicinity was shocked into stone.

"I believe that was a challenge, Malfoy," Blaise drawled, idly shifting his weight. At once everyone's attentions snapped back to him, and Harry was grinning viciously. "So get off your sorry arse and let's see what your inbred wand can do."

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, red with anger. The splotches on his face and neck did nothing for his appearance. "I'll see your dick-whore in Azkaban for this!" he spat.

Blaise threw his head back and laughed.

Around him, eyes widened as the unease grew. Of all the responses he could've had, that certainly wasn't one of them. Blaise, although a continental lord of insatiable repute, was of lower standing on the island than Malfoy. He should have at least abided by the social hierarchy, despite his companion having been insulted-

"Do you even know who you're talking to, Malfoy?" Blaise asked, dark eyes sparkling with cruel mirth. He cocked his head questioningly at Harry. "Would you like to sue him for slander and deliberate disrespect?"

Wide eyes widened even further. Harry looked amused at the game he was playing. "I'd really rather just have the challenge-duel and be done with it. The galleons I have to press suit; it's the time that I don't want to waste, especially not on _this_."

Blaise could barely hold back his chortles at Malfoy's bulging eyes. Oh, what a shame Lucius and Narcissa had died before they could teach their ill-tempered whelp the decorum of a true lord! Or maybe it was better that they'd died and not seen the disgrace to their name. As it was, they were probably rolling over in what miserable grave their ingrate of a son had deigned to give them.

"Do you think he couldn't understand my challenge?" Harry asked, continuing to talk around the irate blond. "I thought I'd used fairly simple language-"

He hummed thoughtfully in the back of his throat. "You could always use the old method- it was dismissed only a decade ago, and you don't have to speak a word. If I'm not mistaken, it allowed you a free shot with a sword-"

"I do have Godric's," Harry said, eyeing Malfoy critically. Blaise nearly choked on his laughter. Only Harry would refer to the legendary sword of Godric Gryffindor, wielded once by both Arthur and Merlin himself, in such an offhand manner. "I might want to do the humane thing and strike off his-"

Draco interrupted with an absolutely filthy thing that had his wife's ears burning and nearly all the pedestrians of Diagon Alley glaring at him in outrage. If he had any sympathisers among them before, they were now all lost.

Blaise whipped out his wand and shot a spell that had the blond crashing to his knees before them. He swiftly marched up to Harry's side, placing himself in an adjacent position that clearly informed of his status as Harry's second.

"Kneel," he snarled. "You are addressing the Lord Potter-Black."

Jaws were hitting the floor. Malfoy-Parkinson looked ready to bawl her beetle eyes out, while Malfoy gaped at them in an unseemly fashion.

"This is pathetic," Blaise sneered, whirling away in disgust.

Harry sighed, touching his arm in a sign of unconscious, but clear intimacy. "I would love to pursue this challenge, but it clearly isn't worth it when the opponent is so mentally challenged. I could almost forgive him his stupidity."

"It would prove your magnanimity," Blaise murmured, the beginnings of a smile growing on his lips.

"And your grace, of course," Harry added, "in letting such blatant foolishness slide." He looked down his nose at Malfoy. "Very well then, Malfoy. You are forgiven your transgression this time, but be warned: the next time I will be out for blood," he cautioned. His deep bass resonated in every inch of Diagon Alley. Then his voice abruptly softened.

"Blaise, if you would?" He gestured for the other man to precede him in a show of obvious deference.

What happened next took only seven seconds.

Malfoy overcame his stupidity with sheer idiocy and snarled a Dark cutting spell at Harry's back. That took five seconds.

Harry pushed Blaise behind him. That took another second. He then cast a wandless blasting spell at Draco's head. It exploded like a pumpkin.

Blaise looked at the blood-spattered Malfoy-Parkinson critically. "If there was an Heir Clause in the contract," he said, "I do hope Malfoy's done his half of the agreement. Otherwise-" He was interrupted by a choked gurgle from her closing throat as the Malfoy family magics caught her in the breach of contract. What they did to her was particularly grotesque, considering her and her husband's folly had concluded in the end of the Malfoy line. Blaise, personally, wouldn't miss them, and there would be no political repercussions. Harry had been well within his right as a Lord not only of a higher social standing, but greater financial power. Then a thought occurred to him.

"With the end of a dynasty line, the personal fortunes will be assigned to whatever the will dictates, but the family vaults will go to the Lord's next-of-kin," he remarked. "And you, as the Black Lord-"

Harry burst out laughing, and took his arm. "Oh, Blaise," he sighed, burying his nose in dark waves. "Why couldn't I have known you earlier?"

* * *

There was a woman following him. It wasn't them she was following, merely him. This was no statement of arrogance, mere truth; he had long learnt how to identify the stalkers from the mere watchers. His mother had made sure to train him in the ways, steep him in the knowledge. This woman was good, and very discreet, but he had known her intentions the moment they locked eyes in the reflection of a window sill, even if she'd glanced away bare moments later.

It wasn't an unfamiliar situation to him. Many women, and the occasional man, had also fancied themselves infatuated with him, and had gone to great lengths to persuade him of their inclination. But there was something different about this woman, something dangerous, something _other_. He carried up his half of the conversation admirably, barely slipping, while making sure to have one eye on her at all times. He doubted Harry noticed, and if he did, he said nothing.

They were in Holwe and Lawrence- the upper-class version of Borgin and Burke's- when she made her move. It was subtle, just the slightest brushing of her sleeve against his bare arm, but Blaise felt something in his chest seize up. He stared after her, taking in the luscious strawberry-blond curls and dimpled cheeks, the round blue eyes watching him with an unreadable expression, and felt his his loins tighten in response. He knew those eyes. He'd known them ever since he was old enough to be aware.

They were the same eyes that had watched over her descendants for thousands of years, promising retribution to anyone who stood in the way of her intentions. She would not see it all go to waste because of the newest one's folly. Blaise wanted to laugh. Apparently he and Malfoy had something in common as well: they were both to be the end of their dynasties. He could only hope Harry would fall outside her circle of revenge.

The very thought made him want to choke out his mirth. He and Harry had met only yesterday, and yet she had already deemed him a certain enough threat to intervene like this. He'd heard stories, of course, whispered in his ears by caring portraits, of the ones before him who had tried to love, and love for their own sakes, not hers, but had never succeeded.

Sophonisba had been one, the child bride tragically culled before her true love for a young handmaiden could be culminated. The stories never spoke of a child, but there had been a rape before their common ancestor had spirited the boy away, raising him for yet another generation.

And then there was the beautiful nubile Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi. Despite her youth, she had fought the Erinyes' hand and taken her father's name rather than her mother's. But her lover, who had also doubled as her chaperone, was ripped from her and she too, was raped, before being dragged through a mockery of a trial and then hastily married off to a second-rate cock at its conclusion. All her life Artemisia had fought, and the Fates admired anyone who would stand against that Erinyes, so they had aided her. Four sons she had born, although all four had succumbed to the River Styx, leaving only a single daughter, Prudenzia, to survive. She, weary of all the death that had surrounded her childhood, once again took up the Zabini mantle.

As vengeful as his ancestor was, the manor's cthonic magic was as old as hers, and had a will just as obdurate as her own. The manor would not let any of the Zabini be forgot just because the first held a grudge against them. Sophonisba's story adorned one of the sitting rooms, while many of Artemisia's paintings hung unforgotten about the manor. One of them was of a female martyr, a rose knot on her shoulder, and a painfully weary look in her eyes. She never spoke her secrets, had always held her council. Blaise had recognised the look in her eyes, had seen the same in his mother's eyes and the many generations before, and dreaded the day words would finally fall from her lips.

And now he, like each of them before, was caught, captured by his ancestor's magic shooting straight to his thighs, nearly physically dragging him forward. He would be used, his seed deposited in her vessel, while he was quietly disposed of. It was all he had ever been guaranteed, of course. He could ask for nothing more.

"Stop it."

Blaise held his tongue, trying not to scream as two opposing magics tore him two separate ways. He couldn't quite think of what it meant that Harry could hold his own against his ancestor's millennia-old magics. The other man stepped up in front of him, his arm barring across his chest to keep him from moving.

"I won't let you kill him."

When had the store emptied? There was no one left to stare at this awful confrontation, and Blaise was pointlessly grateful for that one small mercy.

His ancestor was looking at Harry now, smiling in her own way, as though daring him to show her just what he could do. Blaise gulped at the surging tide of magic raging through his body. Harry just sneered at her.

"How many of your own blood have you murdered already?" he demanded. "Do their cries haunt you at night?" The woman's perfect face turned ashen. "Do your brethren come and breathe at the glass while you sleep, hoping to haunt you to true death?"

All at once she bared her illusions and revealed herself in her true form, baring inhuman fangs, claws, and scaled shoulders. Blaise turned away. He couldn't stand to look at her in the knowledge that her blood ran through his veins, had run through his beloved mother's, and so many others before.

"You know nothing!" she hissed angrily. Her wings flared to their full span and shimmered in an array of blood-spattered feathers.

"I know he wants to love," Harry insisted, "as those who came before him. None of them chose to lose that chance at love. You should know the pain of losing; you hunted those who caused others to lose unjustly before their time!"'

Of course Harry was referring to the myth of Orestes, among so many others, but Blaise couldn't help but think of Artemisia, and the martyr with her sad eyes. He'd wondered if that had been her poor lost lover, forever trapped in the house of her beloved with her lover nowhere in sight. There wasn't a single self-portrait of Artemisia in the manor.

And of course, in the myth of Orestes, Harry knew very well the Erinyes had been denied their revenge. They would have gone berserk, had Athena not placated them with offerings of worship and prosperity.

"I want a child," his ancestor sniped, her claws growing into talons.

Harry pointed at Blaise. "Is he not your child? They all have to grow sometime."

She shook her head, scattering her wild locks. "There will only ever be one at any time. That was the deal. Once the child is born, he dies."

Harry's eyes were hard. "And what if he doesn't die?"

The two stared at him, eyes revealing their disbelief.

"He can't have children. Neither can I. If we bond- swear an oath that is immortal and unbreakable- they have to keep him alive. Any child born out of wedlock will be killed by the magic. He would be yours, forever."

Blaise could almost hear the Fates shrieking at this solution.

His ancestor narrowed her eyes at him. "Was that your wish all along? Immortality?"

Harry snorted. "Hardly. I think one life is hard enough to live by itself."

She looked curious. "Then why?"

"Because he doesn't deserve what's been dealt to him," he said fiercely. "I'll do anything I can to prevent it."

Against all odds, she actually seemed to be considering it. "And the immortality?"

Harry softened abruptly, looking at Blaise with pleading green eyes. "I think I could be amenable to the situation," he whispered, "given the right companion."

"Then it is done," she declared, folding her wings back and abruptly sweeping into flight. Once the words were said, they both felt the magical bonds snap into place.

Blaise wanted to gripe at the indignity of it all, being bartered over like a piece of chattel, but he fainted before he could get a word in edgewise. His last thought was that he hoped he fell with a little dignity, at least.

* * *

He awoke to the bare Spartan walls of his room. The shepherdesses and their stable boys in the relief peered over at him worriedly, but then let out a cheer when they saw he was awake. Suddenly, he was aware of another presence in the room, and whipped his head around to look at Harry James Potter.

He wasn't resting on the bed, but seated in a chair beside it. The man had the actual gall to smile at him like he woke up to this everyday.

"I thought you'd be more comfortable if you woke up to your own space."

Blaise wanted to snarl at him. Or at least throw something at him. He'd never have his own space again. What in Merlin had he been thinking? Oh, wait, obviously he hadn't-

Instead what came out was, "Two days. After seven years of less than nothing, and not even a full two days later. Potter, are you mad?" Blaise was upset that all he could manage was worry. He tried to slam his fist against the mattress to bring his point across, but he was still painfully weak.

Harry was by his side in a flash. "Hush," he whispered, settling Blaise back among the pillows and covers. He could pretend to hate it, but he was actually quite comfortable. He hated to think that he'd be more comfortable if Harr- Potter- were in bed right next to him.

"The bond caused our magic to even out. I'm afraid that's what's making you weak. You were a powerful wizard, but I have some pretty ridiculous reserves from that event in my infancy everyone likes to not talk about, so it'll take your body some time to adjust."

Blaise frowned at him. "If the disparity was that great, shouldn't that mean bed rest for you, too?" He grimaced when he realised just how concerned he sounded.

Harry smiled gently, and kissed him softly on the lips. "Thank you. But I did have my rest. It was all I could manage to bring us back to the manor. Luckily she decided to bring us in without waiting for you to wake up, else we'd still be stuck on the grounds. I just woke up yesterday, and found out we'd been asleep for five days already."

"…five days!" he exclaimed, eyes wild.

Harry nodded. "My reaction exactly. Although yours would be six, I suppose." The other man smiled again at the disgruntled look on his face.

They fell into an easy sort of silence, broken only by the soft chatter of the shepherdesses with their stable-boys. Although their relief was the only decoration in the entire room, they were also the most active ornamentation in the whole manor, if only because they'd been made in the image of mere mortals. Blaise sometimes wondered if he hadn't chosen this room for that very same reason, if he'd been truly, much, much, lonelier than even he himself had admitted.

"I owe you my life, and more," he said.

Harry shook his head. "You don't owe me anything."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "There must've been something you wanted. Did you get it?"

"Would you believe it if I told you everything I said to your ancestor was the absolute truth?" he asked instead.

"Of course not!" Blaise scoffed. "That sort of sentimentality doesn't exist in Slytherins!"

Harry smiled faintly. "Well, then it's good, then, since the Sorting Hat told me I would've done well in Gryffindor."

Blaise recoiled in horror, which made Harry tsk irritably.

"Don't be a prat, Blaise, it was only a scrap of rag. Besides, I managed to talk it out of that absurd idea, didn't I? I spent all seven years in Slytherin instead."

Blaise looked at him cautiously, but said nothing.

"That just gives me license to go about saving people without asking for anything in return," Harry said blithely. "After all, I'd started a trend when I was a year old in that whole matter no one can ever bring themselves to talk about, so I thought I'd just go with tradition."

The words were so absurd that they startled him into laughing. Harry looked glad that he'd had some humour restored, at least.

"But I meant every word I said, Blaise. We're stuck together now, and I want to make it work. I want- well, I want you."

"You make no sense at all."

"I know I don't. But- please. Let me stay."

Blaise was struck by the odd feeling that he was in control here. It didn't make sense; he was physically exhausted, and had obviously been the much weaker magic-wise of the two. In all reality, he probably owed the man a life debt on top of everything else. Not to mention how they were both pretty much immortal now. And yet Harry looked at him with such openness and vulnerability, that he didn't doubt a single word could break the man in front of him.

He took a breath.

"I...find myself…amenable to the situation."

Emerald eyes brightened and cleared, and he bowed his head against Blaise's side to hide the beginnings of a beatific smile. His fingers waffled, and then Blaise gave into the temptation and buried his hand into wild black strands. Harry made a pitiful noise as the fingers slowly scritched his scalp, and he burrowed deeper into the covers lathering Blaise's lap. The man wrapped his arms about the slim waist, cool hands bleeding into colder skin, causing Blaise to inwardly wonder if love was meant to feel like this. And then it struck Blaise that never once before had he given that word even a thought within the context of a relationship involving someone not blood-related to himself, and he inevitably _knew_, and surrendered himself to the feeling, embedded within a green-eyed black-haired man.

Around them, the manor resounded with a contentment that had never been before felt on the grounds. And two floors above them, in the furthest right wing, in a guest room that had never been used, sat a painting of a young woman holding a palm frond across her rose-clad shoulder. For the first time in the centuries since she'd been painted, her tired and wane face finally broke into a smile, and she closed her eyes in contentment.

* * *

I would apologise for the copious references to Greek mythology, but I honestly don't regret it, so… (o: For more information on the Furies, try the Wikipedia page of Aeschylus's 'Eumenides'. As for Artemisia Gentileschi and Sophonisba, I have taken several- all right, a lot- of liberties with their known biographies to fit the purposes of this piece.

I don't know when I'll be next posting anything, as I'd like to complete some of those projects I have listed on my profile. It might take a while, so I'll just have to ask you guys to bear with me. Till then, do review, and cheers.


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